Friday, February 27, 2009

Tonight was supposed to be a night of booze and food with friends. Instead, because I'm battling a cold that's rapidly becoming a fever, I'm watching the Raptors-Suns game at home, a cold beer in hand (no virus will deny me that pleasure) and warmth in my heart. It's been a terrific trip home, and there's still so much more I'd like to see and do, so many people I haven't had enough time to hang out with; but alas. Consider this my farewell letter to Canada, disguised as a game log and sponsored by Nyquil.

(After tonight, I can hop off the Raptors' bandwagon. Again.)

- Shawn Marion is back home! I mean, he's probably been back to Phoenix since his trade to Miami, but the insular Toronto media doesn't care about that. By the way, the collective Raptors' fans belief that a) the Raps can still make the playoffs, and b) that Marion won't Usain bolt after the season is over is pretty laughable. If I weren't crying, I'd be laughing, too.

- Jay Triano is a good coach like Stephon Marbury is a good teammate.

- I guess Steve Nash is out again tonight. Cancon is having a coniption fit. They might start pumping in canned Tom Cochrane to make up for it. Don't put it past them.

- Andrea Bargnani is playing like a champ lately. Still, it's too soon to (again) call the guy the Italian Dirk Nowitzki. Besides, who'd want to be compared to that choker. Oooh.

- One more for the Cliche Collector: "They gotta get him going early." I should note that the subject of that trite phrase was one Shaquille O'Neal. Yeah, Shaq is notorious for getting going early. On a smorgasboard! (I know I'm trying too hard. What can you do?)

- Marion with a dunk off the feed from Bosh. Next possession, Calderon nails a J. OMG, World Champs! To quash my cynicism, Barg's gets an and-one and makes good on the three-point play. Pencil him in as an All-Star starter for 2010.

- Time for a commercial break. I'm contemplating another beverage. (Who am I kidding? Like I really had to think about it.)

- Look, I know this post is a little prosaic, so in case I'm underwhelming you, here's a little treat:

(If, like my Constant Retards, you're female, you're probably not reading this blog post, anyway, right? Right? If you are, just go back a couple posts to that pic of me wearing a bra. I hope that makes up for it.)

- Aparently, there's nobody more hip in the NBA than Steve Nash. Bias! Dwyane Wade has a few words for you, Raps announcers. Have you seen his custom Band Aid collection?

- Matt Barnes and Jake Voshkul have some words for each other, then we cut to a shot of some guy in the stands wearing a Team Canada hockey cap. God bless nationalism. Afterward, Barnes comes with an and-one. Take that, Jacob.

- Bill Simmons...sorry, Jason Kapono, hits a J. The Raptors are within four with just under a minute remaining. Don't wanna meet them in the playoffs!

- In a perfect world, Jack Armstrong would be commentating on a national level. (Different nation, though.)

- It's 37-30 Phoenix after one. Really, we've only run through a single quarter? I need to pace myself. Excuse me while I browse Google and Naver for pics of a scantily clad Jessica "Sexiest Woman Alive" Gomes. Part portuguese, part Singaporean, and all woman. Now I definitely have a fever.

- Jack Armstrong condones sports gambling. It's a good thing the 18th Letter is safely abed. Otherwise, I might have had to write a stern letter. Get it? A "Stern" letter? (Again, my apologies.)

- We are tied at 44 with 8:54 remaining in this...the second quarter. Next possession, the Raps take the lead off of a Kapono J. Alvin "Dr. Octogonycologist" Gentry opts for a time-out.

- I have two things on the brain for tomorrow, and neither include Niagra Falls. Arby's and Taco Bell, in that order.

- Some fan shoots a halfcourt shot, granny style (props), for $77,000, and the douchebag announcer -- certainly not Jack Armstrong, the Superman to Doug Collins's Plastic Man -- has to smarmily note that he'll be taxed for it but wouldn't were he living in Canada. Good grief.

- Did you know that Grant Hill is married to Ontario native and Grammy-nominated R&B singer Tamia? You do now!

- Phoenix is up by four with just over five minutes left in the second, and I have to pee like no tomorrow. C'mon, Jay Triano, call a T, not now but right now.

- A succession of poorly played turnovers brings the crowd alive. "Are we at a roller derby here?" Armstrong asks.

- Grant Hill with a monster dunk, and I get that time-out I've been praying for. Thusly, I've been "Grant-ed" a pee break. (Okay, kill me now.)

- By the way, if I have to take a pee break on March 7 when Kmart and I see Watchmen, I'm going to hate myself, and I'm sure I won't be the only one. They don't call me The Iron Bladder for nothing.

- What do you know, I go for leak and suddenly the Raps are down by nine. That never happens!

- At the half, it's 68-67 Suns. Yes, you read that correctly. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to break for more sizzurp.

- The Raptors (laughable) quest for the playoffs contines on Sunday with a game against the Mavs; then they face the Rockets and the Heat next week. I. Will. Not. Hold. My. Breath.

- Purolator Courier, the company that always loses shit shipped to Korea, is sponsoring this game. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.

- The Raps are up by three, and I'm 101 degrees Celcius. And climbing. As far as game logs go, I hope you all consider this my MJ flu game. If anyone were actually reading this, I mean.

- With those chicken legs, it's surprising that Chris Bosh has a bum knee.

- My bad: Marion has 18 and 8. Sometimes I really should watch these games instead of staring at my laptop screen -- and pics of Jessica Gomes -- the entire four quarters. Some analyst I am. Still, I'm pretty sure I'm a better one than Dick Vitale, even though my name isn't nearly as cool.

- 4:54 to go in the third quarter, and the Raps are up by one, 84-83. Cleveland, you don't want none! Boston, you don't want none!

- Anthony Parker nails a big three, and the Raps announcers say absolutely nothing. Either one of them had his mouth full of food, or a fan was getting a little too rowdy. I'm genuinely curiously which one it is.

- The Raps are back down by five with 2:42 to go in the third. I know you're picturing this in your head right now, which is why I'm writing so clinically about the matchup. I'm like the Slick Rick of basketball live blogging, son!

- Kaps (we're tight like that) drains a three to bring Toronto within two -- a bucket that Louis "Captain Feathersword" Amundson quickly makes up for with a flush in the paint. Or makes up two-thirds of. You know what I mean.

- After three, it's 86-82 Suns.

- Again, I come back from the lavatory to find the Raptors down big, this time by eleven. And here I was just about to promise to permanently remain in Canada should Toronto win. Fuck it: I still do. There are suddenly a lot of nubile virgins who have stakes in this contest.

- I might throw up anyway, but if the announcers compare Bargnani to Dirk one more time, I surely will.

- Just under seven minutes left and the Raps are down by fourteen. Make that sixteen. Shaq has 38 points, and I need a cold shower. Here I come, South Korea!

- Roll out the garbage time players. This game is over, and so am I. The Suns have 90 points IN THE PAINT, and Shaq has 45.

Tonight's theme is hair. Don't ask why; it just is. Ben Wallace cut his fro/braids, AI cut his braid-braids, and Von Wafer has a bro-hawk. I'd like to think I invented that term, but it's probably already been coined, like how David Foster Wallace beat me on the whole asterisk thing by a few years*. Anyway, I've had a few beers, a lot of ketchup chips, and I just heard that the Celtics will announce tomorrow that they

(hate themselves)

have signed Stephon Marbury. (Perhaps you've heard of him.) So please forgive me if this game log is a little manic. I just don't know what to think anymore.

- Alvin Gentry is a competent coach, but he's an even more accomplished gynecologist. Trust me.

- I'm wearing my Doug Collins repellent tonight. Hope it works.

- Barbosa is starting at point guard. I'm no basketball strategist, but something doesn't smell right. Oh, yeah, it's Steve Nash lamping on the bench in a suit. With Ill Mare out, this game just lost a few more thousand Marquee Matchup points in my book**. I will try to disguise my disappointment the same way Mickey Rourke probably did after losing out on the Best Actor Oscar: by getting shitfaced.

- Doug Collins is talking about Trust Factor. Am I the only person who thinks Collins would make a terrific life coach/inspirational speaker/guidance counsellor? Anything to get him away from announcing basketball games. He always sounds like he's crying, like he's projecting his failure as a coach onto the youngsters. Between Collins's weepiness, Craig Sager's suit, and Louis Amundson's ponytail, I'm tempted to say fuck it and throw a trash can through this game's figurative window like Radio Raheem. Voice of Reason.

- Kobe is 6-of-6 in the first quarter. Yay!

(Okay, fuck that noise.)

- The other day, during our trip to Toronto, I tried to buy two T-shirts from the Air Canada Center: one Chris Bosh tee, one Jose Calderon tee. And my credit card was declined. I don't think that was simply a coincidence. It was a prophecy. See, I'm somewhat of a clairvoyant; and it runs in the family, as evidenced by the 18th Letter's question to me last night: "Daddy, when I can see people's thoughts, can they also see mine?"

- According to Doug Collins, Alvin Gentry is a special coach. After I crash into the Pacific early next week, can someone please hire that fucker to eulogize me? I'll even write the opening paragraph: "Eoin Forbes was a very special man who could have been a carpenter or a plumber, but instead he was a writer. What a lot of people don't understand is that he used his inherent gifts as a builder and fixer to construct sentences rather than floors, tighten syntax instead of pipe valves."

- Adam Morrison is in the game, and, sadly, Collins doesn't make me feel sorry for what a shitty NBA player the guy is. I guess he's saving it for fawning over Grant Hill's lamentably sporadic career.

- I should probably note that the Suns are down by 15 at halftime. Maybe if I stop obsessing over how poor a commentator Doug Collins is things'll turn around. Probably not, though, because Craig Sager's thow-up suit just made another appearance. Are you telling me that Stern mandated players not in uniform wear suits while on the bench, that shorts shouldn't go lower than the knee...and yet Sager is allowed to assault both my sense of taste and hearing with his loud suits? Shit ain't fair.

- Apparently Ben Wallace broke his leg and Lebron had no assists tonight against the Rockets. If I knew anything about Photoshop, I'd drop a pic of Tracy McGrady as the Phantom of the Opera below. Since I don't, you'll just have to settle for this:

- Doug Collins, who I'm sure must have a restraining order against me by now, just called the Lakers the "Lackers." Somewhere in cyberspace, 15-year-old Lakers fans are calling for his head like extremist Muslims do when someone draws Mohammed. And while I know it was a slip of the tongue, I hate Doug Collins a little less right now. Two more beers and I'd let him caress my leg.

- Where is Matt Barnes? A ridiculous question, perhaps, but we are living in ridiculous times.

- Don't tell anyone, but -- word to Jeon Jihyeon -- I tapped KG's cell phone and recorded his convo with Stephon Marbury. A transcription follows:

Steph: Back one more 'gin!

KG: [click]

- The Suns are only down by 21 halfway through the third quarter. Make that 23. Ugh. A little too early to trot out your garbage time players, though, Dr. Gentry. This game is a pap smear!

- Doug Collins calls this season a war of attrition. Again, I agree. Hells bells, these pills are working!

- Fuck it, I'm done. I cannot stand to listen to Doug Collins pontificate over a blowout any longer, especially since he's making way too much sense. And there's a full quarter left. I'm going to hang myself like John Locke. Spoilers***?

* I, however, would have the last laugh.

** "Blood, Sweat, and Eye Water," available this November in paperback at all Barnes & Noble stores nationwide (in Uzbekistan).

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

After a day of sloth (and shaving cream), the phoenix in me rose to conquer the world, or at least the Greater Toronto Area. Soon after breakfast, I sauntered down to the 18th Letter's school -- the same school I attended as a kid, which made me feel old and, truth be told, a little nervous -- to observe her class. I'm happy to report that my daughter is one smart cookie. But you already knew that.

After two hours of watching five-year-olds have to go to the bathroom like they were patrons in a bar who had each had about twelve drinks, I met up with my sister, Beatrice, and Legs. Our destination: Toronto, the New York City of Canada. Because my driver's license expired five years ago and Legs lost her international driving permit* somewhere between Tokyo and Toronto, we had to take the bus ($2.75) down to the Go Station and ride the train ($7.80) into the city. I hate communism.

Upon arriving in Toronto, Canada's real capital city**, my sister, Audrey, left us to attend to some personal affairs (read: sports books), and Legs and I headed to that big fucking tower you always see in pictures of the city. I think it's called the Space Needle. Did you know that for the reasonable price of twenty-seven dollars plus tax per person you can ride in an elevator to the top of a tall building and look down at tall-but-considerably less-tall buildings? You do now! If you squint your eyes, you can even see urban gentrification expanding everywhere like a virus spreading under a reverse microscope. Money well spent!

Sorry for sounding caustic, because I really did enjoy the experience; but that's mostly because I forced Legs to have a drink with me in the tower's restaurant. I had heard that the restaurant rotated and was sad to discover it doesn't. But maybe that's my own fault for only ordering one beer.

Our fun time at 553 meters over, we headed back to Union Station to meet my sister, Claudia, and the three of us took the subway*** to...Korea Town. Yes, even though I'll be breathing that fresh peninsular air in less than a week's time, I couldn't help it: I wanted kimchi, soju, and Big Bang on the radio. You can take the boy out of Korea, but you can't take Korea out of the boy.

(But before my appetite would be sated, I dipped into a convenience store for some cigarettes. Upon exiting the Space Needle, I had smoked the last square of the two cartons of Dunhill Legs and I had brought with us on our trip, and I was in dire need of some nicotine -- so much so that I paid $10.80 for a pack of 25 DuMaurier king size cancer sticks. Make fun of me; I deserve it. I haven't felt so guilty for wasting money on something so trivial since that one time I spent $2.75 to ride the subway, or the time I bought Idlewild on CD when I knew full well how shitty it was but thought that actually owning a copy of it might somehow make it better, like how parents of retarded children can grow to love their kids.)

Dinner consisted of nakji bokkeum, haemul jeon, and a whole load of beers. I was -- strangely, mystifyingly -- jonesing for some soju, but when it was pointed out to me that the menu gives you the option of five beers or one bottle of soju, it was pretty clear which alcoholic beverage would win this war. And here I thought Asians were good at math.

I must say, that meal felt like home.

* No car + Canada = a lot of nights at home watching basketball and drinking Labatt Blue. I don't see how that's a bad thing.

** Come on; they have the Leafs, the Raptors, the Blue Jays, and the best hot dog vendors in the world. Beat that, Ottawa (sorry), Montreal, Vancouver, and Fredricton.

*** "Ride the Rocket" is the TTC's slogan. "Only ride it if you have to" is mine. Compared to the Seoul metro, the Toronto underground is like waking up in a world where iPods have been replaced by ham radio, televisions by flip books, Conan O'Brien by Jay Leno, and air conditioning units by paper fans. And, yes, the fare is $2.75. Finally, someone put a price on discomfort. What irks me even more is that I wasn't chased by a lycanthrope on my way out.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Because I know you're enormously curious, here's what I did today, edited for content (i.e. blowjobs and bowel movements):

After celebrating Slumdog Millionaire's Best Picture win last night a little too indulgently by way of Tennesse Sipping Whisky and Cheetos (because I can!), I woke up at seven, not long before the 18th Letter left for daycare. The little girl safely on her way, I heated two cheeseburger Hot Stuffs in the microwave and then ate them with a cold can of V8. Then I went back to sleep.

I awoke three hours later, smoked a square, and watched The Curious Case of

(Tracy McGrady)

Benjamin Button with Legs. Here's my rapid-fire review:

I love David Fincher like I love my dick size. I will again state, for the record, that Zodiac is one of the finest, most well-directed and acted films I've ever seen. But for every Fincher masterpiece (Zodiac, Se7en, Fight Club), there's a failure (Alien 3, Panic Room). Like The Game, Benjamin Button falls somewhere in the middle for me. Its first and third acts are outstanding, and while the second act is certainly compelling, it's too bad it stretches out longer than Manute Bol. 3/4 *_*

After the movie finished, I helped the 18th Letter with her homework, ate a fish dinner, and watched Hanna Montana. (And while I begrudgingly accept and understand the show's popularity, I get up in arms at its portrayal of adults -- parents, teachers -- as idiotic buffoons. Then I remind myself that Saved by the Bell did the same thing. Then I stop thinking about kids shows.) I tucked the 18th Letter in, thought about reading more of Aravind Adiga's phenomenal "The White Tiger," opted instead to drink cold beer and warm whisky while watching/listening to the Celtics-Nuggets game, and took a picture of a behemoth chocolate bar.

And here I am, half drunk and full retard, trying to find a way to rationalize my hyperactive anticipation for the March 6 release of Watchmen. Like many people, I'm constantly revising my geek checklist of Things I Want to Watch/Hear/Experience/Fuck Before I Die, and presently Zack Snyder's Watchmen film is the sole occupant on that list. The Star Wars Saga, the Lord of the Rings Trilogy, the Harry Potter books, and Barack Obama's presidency have all occurred within my lifetime, and save perhaps Guillermo del Toro's The Hobbit and seeing Lee Hyori naked, Watchmen is the only thing I have to obsess over as far as entertainment is concerned.

So it is with a hopeful heart and an alcohol-drenched liver that I pray, pray, pray to return safely to the Peninsula in a week's time so as to fulfill a promise I made to a dear friend. See, Kmart, the Laurel to my Hardy, the Rerun to my Roger, is not long for this world -- and before he passes under the veil of mystery that is human existence and won't have to hurt anymore, I'm taking him to Hooters and to see Watchmen.

Chocolate bar, I dub thee Big Boy. You are 120 grams and 800 calories* of tasty chocolate filled with "peanut butter," and you are special. I bought you almost three weeks ago for a dollar at -- coincidentally -- Dollarama, and still I have not had the heart to eat you.

But I will. Soon. Sorry, bar, you have it coming.

* more calories than a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese (!), which I again had the pleasure of eating/making ingestion love to during my pilgrimage to the nation's capital last Friday.

Sunday, February 22, 2009

Never bring a knife to a gunfight, a child to a bar, or Hugh Jackman to host the Oscars. All are good ideas that in hindsight bring clarity, and that's how herpes happens.

After my whirlwind tour of Ottawa, during which I marked my territory, swam, ate poutine, and peed on Parliament Hill (though not in that order), Dr. Manhattan returned to Mecca 2 with family in tow, eager to watch the Academy Awards.

Naturally, things didn't go according to plan. The 18th Letter couldn't fall asleep, I had a hard time accepting the fact that I'll probably never eat a poutine ever again, and Legs got loopy off Midol.

Still, I tried. Which is more I can say for one Mr. Hugh

(G. Rection)

Jackman. Seriously, where'd he go? If he hosted the Oscars, so did I!

But let's leave that to the trades and Gay Blade. All I want to do now is celebrate.

This evening, I turned on the television and flipped through the channels, hoping to see something other than a myriad of Steven Seagal movies. I'll be forthright and mention that my hopes were, within a minute, dashed by the appearance of Exit Wounds, but I'd also like to point out that I stumbled upon a showing of the 2009 Royal Rumble.

You know, I've never been a huge fan of professional wrestling, but like most boys that watched a lot of TV during the eighties, I was certainly exposed to it,* and I've always enjoyed the concept behind the rumble: a large number of guys going apeshit (or pretending to do so) within a ring. Fun times had by all.

At some point during this year's rumble, 'Hacksaw' Jim Duggan entered the fray, and yes, you heard me right: Jim fucking Duggan, the same guy that wrestled against the Iron Sheik and Sgt. Slaughter some twenty years ago. I had to wonder, just how old is that guy? I'm not going ageist on anyone, I just can't help but think that Duggan's a tad past his prime, and judging by his performance during the match, that prime coincided with the release of Jumpin' Jack Doritos.

So, curious guy that I am, I went to Wikipedia and did a search on Mr. Duggan. Turns out he's fifty-four years old. Not terribly surprising, I suppose, but I did come across this amusing tidbit:

In 1987, Duggan and the Iron Sheik (Hossein Vasiri) were pulled over by New Jersey police after a WWF event, suspecting Duggan of driving under the influence. After a search of the vehicle and the persons, police discovered that Duggan was under the influence of marijuana and alcohol, while the Sheik was high on cocaine. Small amounts of cocaine were also found in the vehicle.

For a wrestling aficionado, this kind of thing may be par for the course, but for laymen like myself, it was rather comical for a variety of reasons,** and as one may guess (and rightfully so), I was compelled to click on the link to the Iron Sheik, where I was treated to another amazing factoid:

In recent years, the Iron Sheik has expressed intense dislike for many wrestlers, wrestling promoters, former friends, and celebrity figures, including Brian Blair, Nikolai Volkoff, The Ultimate Warrior, Hulk Hogan, André the Giant, Michael Richards, and others. In various interviews conducted with the Sheik, he has lashed out at these and other figures, using extremely profane language and often threatening to "humble" them by means of anal rape.

Seriously now, I can understand the theatrical aspect of professional wrestling as well as the behavior expected from faces and heels, Mr. Hossein Khosrow Ali Vaziri, but is the threat of anal rape really necessary?

(This was my Sunday evening.)

* I also went through a period, in the latter nineties, during which I watched WWF/E on a weekly basis, but hey, I lived in an all-male dormitory my freshman year of university, and it's tough to avoid being sucked into the Nothing. Word to Atreyu.

** The least of which being that Sparkles *_* and I have found ourselves in a similar situation on numerous occasions and, more often than not, there was a 2x4 in the back seat of Forbes' El Camino.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

(Sometimes these post titles write themselves; sometimes -- usually is more like it -- alcohol does; and sometimes Marv Albert throws me a dime, as is the case tonight. Thanks, Marv, for providing me with the perfect metaphor.)

As much as I love Burlington, Ontario (16 years lived in), Bundang (5 years*), and Seoul (3 years), it is the city in which I was born, Canada's capital, Ottawa, that I have the most nostalgia for. Born in 1978, I lived In Ottawa** until I was six. Then my father, a civil servant for Environment Canada, was relocated to Burlington; and thus my life as a person who would do many things began. I grew up, moved around, learned how to shave, and then taught myself to shave against the grain. Now, here I am. My name is Eoin A. Forbes. I own a mansion and a yacht.

(There's your bildungsroman in a can.)

On this, the final minute remaining in the third quarter of my four quarters of Canada, on the night before I return to the place of my birth, please indulge an old man his memories...

Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Despite its flaws, I had a lot of fun watching Gran Torino, because the film might possibly be Clint Eastwood's final performance in a starring role; and while that could never be a good thing, it is something to cherish.

The film's gift and its curse, so to speak, is that Eastwood's Walt Kowalski is a lovable bigot -- think Archie Bunker with a 12-gauge -- and only Eastwood in that role could make audiences sympathize with such a hardass. Writers Nick Schenk and Dave Johannson deserve a lot of credit (and some scorn; I'll get to that later) for creating such an ostensibly despicable character and revealing, ever so masterfully, through the course of the film's running time, the heart within Walt Kowalski; but in the end it's Eastwood's direction and acting acumen that stick the landing. Picture David Morse in the lead role and tell me you could sympathize with him.

Walt's an asshole. He's a big fucking asshole. But he's also a big old softie at heart. I'm sure a lot of people watching the film will see their grandfathers, uncles, etc. in Walt. I certainly did; but just as I'm willing to acknowledge that some of my relatives have opinions regarding other races that are outdated and ignorant, I also know that they have nobility and compassion that transcend race. Again, Walt Kowalski is an asshole, but there's no hatred in him. Annoyance with pretty much everyone except his dog, yes, but at heart he's a decent human being who believes in right and wrong.

There's a reason, or several, why people become detestable, angry human beings, and in Walt's case it's his time spent in Korea during the war*, the death of his wife, and the disconnect he feels toward his kids and their families. His character's progression in the film from crotchety old bastard to benevolent hero may seem to many as contrived, but the plot earns it. Walt Kowalski is a racist as defined by today's standards, but if you were to ask him, he'd tell you that he's a product of his environments over the years, and that those unfortunate environs and circumstances and years have helped harden his bitter shell. Korea was Hell for him; he saw his friends die, and he killed at least thirteen "gooks." His once homey neighborhood has slowly declined into a ghetto; and so when Walt finally realizes that he, as Father Janovich puts it, "knows more about death than life," he decides to do something about it. He decides to become a new man.

To reach this progression, of course, a foreign element must come into the picture. Enter Walt Kowalski's next door neighbors, the

(Jeffersons)

Lors and their youngest children, son Thao, a bookish introvert, and his sister, Sue. When Thao is recruited against his will by his cousin's gang to steal Walt's titular car as an act of initiation, fails, and is about to feel the consequence of his failure (read: a thorough skull thumping), Walt steps in to save the young man, even though all Walt wants is for those dirty "swamp rats" to get off his well-manicured lawn.

For Walt's act of bravery, he's rewarded by the Lor family and others in the neighborhood with gift baskets that crowd his porch steps -- gift baskets that he quickly dispatches into his garbage cans. But when Sue convinces the increasingly annoyed Walt -- sorry, Mr. Kowalski -- to attend her family's get-together, and Walt agrees because he's all out of beer, Walt finally starts to loosen up -- and by "loosen up" I mean he gets drunk, eats Hmong cuisine with old ladies, and calls Thao a pussy for not sticking up for himself and trying to get fresh with "Yum Yum."

And while the kid who portrays Thao can't act his way out of a

(locked basement door)

wet paper bag, Eastwood's interaction with the two siblings, particularly with Sue, is what endeared me to the film. There's a lot in the film that feels like an After School Special**, as any film that tries to tackle the subject of race and racism must, I suppose, but it worked for me. Despite the over-the-top dialogue that goes out of its way to exposit that Walt is a friendly racist who doesn't discriminate (there's a paradox for you), it worked. Despite Clint Eastwood's tragically awful singing over the end credits, it worked.

3/4 *_*

* As someone who's spent a considerable amount of time in post-war Korea and has seen firsthand how it can turn seemingly normal men into angry bigots, I understand. I don't condone it, but I understand.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

He's back. The man behind the mask. And he's out of control. Jason Vorhees, that big retard, has, word to Bill Simmons, hooked himself up to the juvenation machine, and I think I like it. In fact, I know I do.

As someone who has seen every Jason movie and liked fewer than half of them; as someone who adamantly believes Part II is the best in the series and that the sack over Jason's head is much more menacing than a goalie mask; as someone who hasn't felt the nervous sense of terror and dread that the best slasher movies provide in a long time, Friday the 13th is both a return to form and a welcome breath of fresh air. The biggest compliment I can pay the film is that I truly was terrified -- or as terrified as a 30-year-old man jaded by Hollywood slasher tropes can be. (If you really want to see me terrified, see me off at Pearson Airport in a couple of weeks.)

Sure, slasher films are pretty much a one-trick pony, which is why all the Halloween, Jaws*, and Nightmare movies' sequels are pretty awful. There's not much further you can improve upon the formula of a faceless menace slaughtering young people. (Word to the Bush administration.) Your options, I suppose, are to put your soon-to-be-dead cast of kids in a new location like Manhattan or outer space (same thing?), or to go the route of so-called torture porn and sacrifice genuine tension for blatant shock. But who wants that? It's good to know that in 2009 Platinum Dunes has released what horror fans loved so dearly in 1980: a straight-up slasher movie. Two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese. Pickles. Onions. On a sesame seed bun.

Thankfully, Friday the 13th opts for scares and suspense over gratuitous gore and slow, gruesome deaths. Relatively speaking, of course, because this is, after all, a Friday the 13th picture. There's plenty of blood and carnage, but it never overwhelms or takes away from the reboot's modus operandi: fast, furious kills and unrelenting tension. True to the character's original slasher villain iconography, Jason runs trough two groups of college kids like a force of nature -- always present, always unstoppable.

So while Friday the 13th doesn't reinvent the slasher genre -- a genre, like heavy metal and hot dogs, that neither benefits from nor needs reinvention -- it certainly reinvigorates it.

4/4 *_*

* Please indulge me on this point; except for some fins and a lack of limbs, I don't see much of a difference between Jason Vorhees and Bruce.

Saturday, February 14, 2009

Ladies and gentlemen, would I could tell you that All-Star Saturday was monumental, pretty good, even. The truth is, save Allen Iverson cutting his cornrows*, it was a snorefest for the most part. I missed H-O-R-S-E, and I would blame myself for such a transgression were it not for the league's indefensible decision to air it at 5 p.m. (because nobody watches TV at 5 p.m. on a Saturday.) Shooting Stars was -- predictably -- awful; the participants in the Skills Competition were visibly bored and/or hungover; and we should probably drive away fast, hit-and-run style, from the roadkill that was the 3-Point Shootout**.

So by the time the Dunk Contest was set to begin, I was

(knee deep in cocaine and pussy)

more than a little drowsy, and that's an understatement. Still, last year's

(circus show)

Dunk Contest, if you believed the

(Sprite)

hype, was a precursor to sublimity. I was all set to watch Dwight Howard light himself on fire and dunk a basketball.

What I wasn't prepared for was a scripted event***. Let the record show that Rudy Fernandez got robbed like a fat kid for his milk money. JR Smith didn't deserve to be there in the first place, and despite my ever-loving mancrush on the dude, I had my reservations about Rudy; but those were quashed after his first two dunks. That he finished last in the first round is, to me, an injustice as egregious as Roy Jones Jr. losing in the gold-medal match at the '88 Seoul Olympics.

Look, I'm realistic; I know Rudy had -- word to Jonny Fontaine -- no chance of winning the contest. But in a perfect world, where Quarter Pounders and ketchup chips are sold in Seoul and Maria Ozawa won't stop pestering me for sex, he should have made it to the second round over Nate Robinson.

Enter: The Illuminati, the same New NBA World Order that -- rightly, I will admit -- shut Yi Jianlan out of the All-Star Game and accelerated Chris Paul's votes to make him a starter over *snicker* Tracy McGrady. Fucking China, man.

When Nate Rob showed up in the final round with a green Knicks jersey and neon-green sneakers, and the Superman-kryptonite metaphor was crammed down our throats, it was evident that this "contest" was decided long ago by the L and Sprite, much like the last presidential election was decided by Pepsi (and the two before it by the Illuminati. And Sprite).

Still, kudos to the Cell Phone Generation for choosing the right winner. After stealing the 2006 dunk title from Andre Iguodala, Nate Robinson deserved to win this year's Dunk Contest.

Last night, I had a rather bizarre dream, in which I rented a hypothetical, recently-released DVD set of the the Wire, season six, from the local Blockbuster Video and went home to watch it. The thought (a hope nestled within a wet dream, if we're going to be precise) of a new season alone makes for the greatest Valentine's Day gift in the history of mankind, but it gets even better.

As with many of my dreams, I can't recall the finer details (probably because they never existed), but there are some moments that stick out in my mind, even as I type. The hallowed theme to the series, Tom Waits' Way Down in the Hole, was covered by none other than Rage Against the Machine, and I can't really describe what it sounded like (as, unfortunately, a hyperlink to my subconscious could not be be established), suffice it to say that if you're familiar with the trademarked RATM sound, and you're a fan of the Wire, you'll be able to generate your own version of audio ecstasy.

The plot itself has been, mostly, wiped away from the scratched chalkboard of my mind, but I distinctly remember that infant-friendly rappers-turned-actors Kid 'n Play had joined the cast as a couple of bumbling florists that ran a shop which served as front for a resurgent Marlo Stanfield and his burgeoning organization.

Off to a great start, and I'm well aware that I should be sending an email to David Simon instead of writing this post, but it started to get weird from that point onward. Christopher Reid's character, coincidentally referred to as 'Kid', had a pet Border Collie (with stupid red scarf tied around its neck) that served to alert the florists of any forthcoming danger, while Christopher Martin, playing the role of 'Chris',* had an enormous hoop earring made from solid gold hanging from his left ear. I'm not certain what that was supposed to be about, but whatever.**

Across the street from the floral shop, squatting on a curb, was this man draped in an oversized, rust-colored duster jacket eyeing the coming and going of gang members, and I use the term 'eyeing' loosely due to the fact that this man also wore a burly Howling-style werewolf mask, and it was exactly the same as the one pictured.*** I should also mention that the phrase 'man' is used hesitantly as well, because it seemed as if it were something other than a man underneath the hairy mask itself, like some manner of twisted joke. Beneath the folds of the all-encompassing jacket, shapes best described as meat hooks pulsated haphazardly, and the man's hands and feet were wrapped up in medical gauze. It was like a new kind of Omar- if you follow me- awaiting the proper moment to make his move.

The scene blended into one of the Border Collie barking at something at the onset of dusk, to which Kid 'n Chris stormed out of the floral shop, revolvers in hand, to see the 'man' dragging the dog into its duster. The camerawork, as I viewed it, obscured just how the animal was pulled inward, but nonetheless, there was something terribly menacing about this substitute Omar. Even as the dog whimpered in pain and the two gun-toting florists shouted profanity-laden threats, the mask remained the same, disturbingly comedic in its molded expression.

At that point, my alarm went off (and yes, I do occasionally set my alarm on Saturdays) and I awoke, only to recall what happened just before that moment.

Even if you were bored by my dream, I think we can all agree that A) a new season of the Wire, and B) some new RATM would be equally awesome.

----------------------* I'm so goddamned clever in my dreams!

** I only remember the earring because, as I watched this episode unfold within my dream, I recall thinking that it was outrageously idiotic.

*** It was that particular mask, most certainly. This past week, I've been perusing a website looking for a Halloween costume, and they offer the item in question.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

It's been a long time, no? Well, the 18th Letter has been put to bed, Legs is likewise sleeping, and I have, hopefully, enough Labbatt Blue and ketchup chips to last me three NBA games. We begin with Heat-Bulls, 5:36 remaining in the final quarter. Call it a comeback.

- Ernie and the gang were talking before the game started about the possibility of Amare Stoudemire being traded to the Heat for Shawn Marion. I'd comment on the ridiculosity of such a trade were I not praying with every fiber of my being that it actually Mehmet occurs.

- The Bulls are within one with just under four minutes left. Is the Heat-Bulls rivalry underrated? I dunno; what I do know is that the Bulls are now up by one and there are apparently 21,000 fans in the United Center. Can we send some of them to Memphis, Atlanta, and New Jersey? I'm all for spectator parity.

- For Kmart: I was in the supermarket yesterday, at the checkout, and The Killers' "The World We Live In" was playing. I just might not be going back to Le Peninsula.

- A promo for The Score riffs on Christian Bale's recently leaked rant on the set of Terminator Salvation. Dear Mr. Bale, lighten the fuck up. Mott's Clamato with a dash of vodka always does it for me.

- Apparently you can get a delay of game for touching the basketball after it comes out of the basket. The fuck? How about a delay of game for rolling the ball inbounds and walking it up court?

- I'm proud of my fellow countrymen for, like Kraft Macaroni and Cheese and clamato juice before it, co-opting Stagg chilli in a can. That shit is life.

- Dwayne Wade has butter fingers! I'm trying not to kick something right now. Dwayne, Chris Paul and Brandon Roy are this close to bumping you out of my Top Five.

- All is forgiven (for now). Wade steals the resulting inbounds pass with 3.5 on the clock. Then he makes an AMAZING pass to Shawn Marion, who wins the game with a thunderous dunk. Awesome, I just watched that.

- Now it's time for

(a cigarette and more beer)

Celtics-Mavs and/or Warriors-Blazers, depending on which is more interesting and if I can watch the Blazers' game on the Internet. By the way, for those who have followed my basketball infidelity, the Blazers are my new obsession. In fact, I'm really only hanging on to the Heat out of loyalty. Until they trade for Ill Mare, that is. Then I'll be all, "Fuck the Blazers."

- According to Doug Collins, Rick Carlisle is a very effective offensive basketball coach. According to me, he has very well-parted hair.

- I must admit, I'm having more fun right now writing this diary than watching the game, mostly because I fucking hate the Mavs. So here's a random observation from earlier today: I saw a cardinal outside my window this morning. And by cardinal I mean a red bird, not a senior ecclesiastical official of the Catholic Church. (I'm so witty when I'm hung over after drinking 10 beers and a bottle of Jack Daniels the night prior.)

- Marv reminds us that Doc Rivers used to do play-by-play. I wish he hadn't. Rivers sounds like a three-pack-a-day smoker gargling gravel.

- Bill Simmons wins: On Saturday at 5 p.m. EST, H-O-R-S-E comes to All-Star Weekend. If you thought cupcakes and Superman capes were avant garde, imagine the posibilites with H-O-R-S-E: a halfcourt shot with a deflated ball; a shot from the stands (off the scoreboard, natch)...hell, this deserves its own post.

- The Mavs are up by nine at halftime. Back at the studio, Kenny candidly admits that All-Star Weekend is one big pussyfest for *snicker* "single guys" as Chris Webber shifts uneasily in his chair.

- Wait, Dwayne Wade is wearing that Band-Aid because he took a shot to the face from Juwan Howard???!!! Juwan Howard is still in the L? Color me incredulous.

- I'm skipping over to Warriors-Blazers. The Trailblazers are down eleven, and the announcers are boring as all get out. I feel like I'm listening to a radio broadcast. Cure: more beer and a handful of Reese Bites, AKA "the best thing to happen to mankind until they find a cure for cancer."

- LaMarcus Aldridge plays the piano and admires Ray Charles. I, on the other hand, play the skin flute and admire Stephen Geoffreys.

- The Warriors announcer -- in between sporadic naps and nips of whisky from his hip flask -- informs me that it's pronounced "fort" and not "fortay." THE MORE YOU KNOW!

- The 18th Letter was sleepwalking, so I put her to bed. Trust me, it was by pure will that I tore myself away from such a riveting broadcast. And I come back to find my Internet video feed stopping and starting like an epileptic donkey. I'm switching back to TNT's broadcast of Celtics-Mavs. Here's hoping Marv Albert tells me Boston's team is actually pronounced "Keltics."

- With only a few minutes left in the third, we're pretty close, which is why I'm hanging in on this one instead of watching Lost. Spoilers: Jin isn't dead!

- Doc Rivers gets his second T and is tossed. This leads me to wish someone, somwhere makes a compilation video of NBA coaches getting tossed and posts it on YouTube. As an amateur lip reader, watching coaches shout "Go fuck yourself!" while storming off the court is edutainment.

- After three, the Celts are down by six and Rondo has a triple double. Six techs in the game total, and I'm itching for a hockey fight.

- Celts are down two with just under six left, Mo Williams is an all-star, and Joaquin Phoenix is the new-millenial Crispin Glover.

- Josh Howard gets his sixth foul. Celts up by three. And my cat is fucking lampin' on the carpet. In the history of cold lampin' that fucker only comes second to William Drayton.

- We're down to 1:38 to play...Dirk ties it. He absolutely refuses to step up to the platform of surrender. I'm jonesing for triple OT. Otherwise, I have nothing else to watch while I drink these last few eleven beers.

- Pierce with a sweet fade-away...Nowitzki travels...Pierce CANNOT BE STOPPED...Jerry Stackhouse is on the sideline, wishing he were Juwon Howard...Meanwhile, over in Oakland, it's a massacre...This game is over, and Doug Collins is (again) name dropping Michael Jordan.

Sunday, February 08, 2009

Saw Coraline today with Grandma, Legs, and the little girl. Short review: not as scary for the 18th L as I worried it might be, although she did ask to go to bed with the nightlight (a Strawberry Shortcake nightlite!)...Ate turkey for the first time in six years, didn't crap again for the fourth consecutive day...Got very depressed (again) while browsing around the supermarket, knowing that in a short time such variety will all be lost. Fucking E-Mart, man...It's arresting to be attended to at a concession stand by a four-foot-tall teenager with hair like one of the Jonas Brothers...Jesus, the Toronto Raptors suck. Silver lining: at least Toronto has the Leafs and the Blue Jays...Today I ate a sandwich the size of my head. My head! Can I get a big Marv Albert Yes! on that one?...Stuffing!...I cannot handle having over one thousand channels and being able to watch every single basketball game broadcast. Pinch me. That plane went down over the Pacific, didn't it?...After so many years spent shopping in crowded Korean grocery stores, shopping on a Sunday afternoon in a gigantic supermarket filled with, aproximately, twelve people feels way too easy...Tomorrow, I eat a Quarter Pounder 및 치즈 seven days too late. Maybe I'll eat six more to make up for forgetting my priorities. Don't think I won't. I have quite the guilty conscience...Why didn't you wave hello to me today when I waved hello to you today? (One of the many quotable lines of dialogue from the glorious In Bruges)...You need to know this: right now I'm typing on a pink laptop. Yes, my girlfriend and soon-to-be wife bought us a pink laptop. On a weighted relationship scale of "pink laptop" versus "being maimed by a soup pot and sleeping every night with one eye open," I'll gladly accept the former. Besides, it's a manly pink...The difference between Korean and American cable programming, in a nutshell: In Korea, a serial killer is caught and Super Action airs Memories of Murder, whereas KTLA airs Teen Wolf on the night of a full moon. To be fair, however, I can't recall the last time I saw a Korean news channel report about a shoplifting dog...The Canadian History Channel is airing Forest Gump. Kinda stretching it, just like when TSN/ESPN airs poker...

All right, I think it's time to drop the facade. The truth is, I'm not in Canada right now. Those photos you might've seen the other day? Fabricated like the NASA moon landing.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Random shit from me today. I went to the race track and placed a rather sizable bet on horse ten in the last race of the day. During the last stretch, that particular horse made a surge for the ages and leapt ahead of all others, save one; horse number eleven. Horse eleven won, literally, by the length of a nose. I'm not saying one thing or another, except to note that I could have taken some time off of work if I had won, and that I came very close to hugging a grown man.

The CN Tower seen from an airplane window...Immigration lines that don't discriminate based on nationality (and that kill my sense of entitlement after being raped in Tokyo and Detroit)...The 18th Letter, worth the 15,000 kilometer voyage and a million more...Forcing myself by pure will to stop from putting my shopping items on a store counter before the customer ahead of me is finished with his purchase, which is incredibly hard...The adrenaline of being awake for 30 hours and not wanting or needing to fall asleep...Falling asleep at 10 p.m. and waking up at 1:30 a.m., feeling like I could conquer the world. Again...Coffee and snow...Reading storybooks, completing puzzles, and high-grade cocaine, AKA Jamaican patties (real heads recognize)...In Bruges, the most overlooked film of 2008. By me...Ballet exam and Beer Store, Labbat's Blue and pets...The realization that Canadian television is even more nationalistic than its Korean counterpart...Getting lost in the supermarket and buying a king's ransom in fruit, relatively speaking...Watching basketball at night...

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

It's 5:30 a.m. local time and I'm staring at my parents' fuzzy computer monitor, which makes me feel like I have a cataract or two, and which I know will lead to a ton of spelling mistakes, but who cares?

I'm home. For the time being.

After a harrowing flight from Tokyo to Detroit -- seriously, it was bad turbulence for most of the flight's 11 hours (see why I fucking hate flying?) -- and 24+ hours of nonstop moving, security checks, and bad pretzels, we touched down in Toronto at 3:35 p.m. and met my fam and the incomparable 18th Letter not long after.

Home, home on the Tundra.

More tales and photos to come when I've gotten my head together. I just wanted to say hi.

Monday, February 02, 2009

The Blue Lagoon, for starters, and the only reason this came up was due to a brief exchange regarding Andre Agassi and the status of his marriage to Brooke Shields. I can guess that you're thinking something along the lines of 'Dude. Didn't they get divorced, like a decade ago?' and I agree, but apparently a friend hadn't received the all-important memo. I understand that a forthcoming query could be 'Why were you even talking about Agassi in the first place?' to which my response would be that we were discussing the career of Ben Stiller.

Now that we've put things into proper context, it's true that I have yet to watch the Blue Lagoon, but I'm pretty sure that it's no big loss.

Sunday, February 01, 2009

Michael Sembello's hit song, Maniac.* Not only was the song pretty cool, it accompanied one of the most breathtaking moments in all of cinema. (Follow this link, and skip ahead to the 3:45 mark.) I don't care how old, crippled, or impotent I may soon become; I will always be entranced by such a simple, yet divine, sequence.

To the numerous female readers of Psychedelic Kimchi: I haven't forgotten about you, and I apologize for the blatant objectification of women presented within this evening's post. Here's a nice chunk of manliness to even the scale.

* Songfacts.com informs me that Sembello's song was originally penned in response to the 1980 film Maniac.** Strange, and probably true.

** A great film in its own right, and the female lead in that film is none other than the indomitable Caroline Munro, who deserves a post all her own.